


Father Mine

by BrachaShakhor



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen, I know her name is meant to be verity but idk, M/M, Past Rape Mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrachaShakhor/pseuds/BrachaShakhor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannah finds out something about her stepfather that she never wanted to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father Mine

**Author's Note:**

> I know that Douglas' daughter's name, according to John Finnemore, is Verity. But I had her in my head as Hannah for the longest time, and Hannah she stays.

 “Hannah!” Martin smiled and crossed the kitchen to give his grinning stepdaughter a hug as Douglas shut the door behind them. “Welcome home!”

                  It was a Hannah Weekend, and Douglas, eager for time with his daughter, had collected her directly from school. They had no flight on Saturday, and the captain could more than manage Sunday’s cargo hop to Munich on his own. It was nice to have Hannah in the house. The girl, fifteen already, made the whole place feel brighter somehow.

                  The three of them settled around the kitchen table to chat. “So, daughter mine, how was school today?” Douglas asked.

                  Hannah’s eyes widened eagerly. Douglas was often astounded at his daughter’s similarity to his husband, how both would lean forward eagerly in their seats and babble nonstop about whatever it was they were excited about. For Martin, of course, it was always aviation. Hannah’s interests shifted like the wind—as well they should at her age.

                  “Well, did I tell you guys that I joined a feminist club at school?”

                  Douglas smiled. “You didn’t! That’s fantastic!”

                  She nodded. “Well, I did. And we’re having, like, this Sexual Assault Awareness week, and so we were, like, giving people facts about rape and stuff.”

                  Martin pushed his chair out abruptly. “I’m going to make some tea.” Douglas glanced at him briefly, but Hannah didn’t notice the note of concern on his face.

                  She continued on, unperturbed. “Like, did you know that one in five girls are victims of sexual assault in university?” She was passionate, but clearly rehearsed. There was the sound of water filling the kettle, a slightly louder-than-necessary _clang_ of the kettle on the stove, the sound of the gas clicking on. Hannah kept babbling horrifying facts and statistics, serious but still bubbly. Douglas watched Martin out of the corner of his eye. His face was closed off. He moved to get the mugs out.

                  “And did you know that, like, so many rapes don’t even get reported to the police? I don’t understand why you wouldn’t report something like that.”

                  _Smash._

                  “Christ!” Hannah shouted, sounding for all the world like her father. Douglas’ stomach turned. He stood.

                  Martin was standing stock still, staring down at the shards of the teacup he’d dropped all around his feet.

                  “Martin.” Douglas kept his voice calm. Gentle.

                  “I broke it.”

                  “It’s fine, love.”

                  Hannah looked between her father and stepfather, but she could piece together the strange tension in the room about as well as she could piece together the shattered glass.

                  “Is everything okay?” Martin finally picked up his head and looked at her.

                  “Do you really want to know why?” He didn’t sound angry. He just sounded sad, and more tired than Hannah knew what to do with.

                  “Why what?”

                  “Martin, you don’t have to.” Douglas rested his hand on his husband’s shoulder; it was shaking a terrifying amount. Douglas guided him gently back to his seat.

                  “She asked a question. A good question, an important question. Do you mind if I tell her?”

                  His eyes had not left Hannah’s face. She was unnerved.

                  “No. I suppose I don’t.”

                  “Why what?” Hannah asked again, feeling rather dumb.

                  Martin cleared his throat, and his face became more like the familiar face Hannah recognized as her stepfather.

                  “Why somebody might not want to go to the police.”

                  Martin’s face closed again. Hannah’s stomach tightened.

                  He bit his lip. “I mean, I did.”

                  The penny dropped. Hannah’s breath felt wrong. Hannah’s world fell off-kilter.

                  “I feel guilty about it. About all of it. I mean, I had been seeing him for awhile. And I wonder, if I had tried harder, I wonder if I could have fought him off.”

                  “Martin.” Hannah had almost forgotten that her father was there; he hadn’t interjected until now. His face was ashen. His eyes were hurt in a way that Hannah had never seen before. “Martin, it wasn’t your fault.” He took a pale freckled hand into his own, rubbing a thumb over the knuckles.

                  “I know, Douglas. But it doesn’t matter. Please just let me tell it.”

                  Hannah’s father, who she’d never seen not try to have the last word, nodded gravely but did not let go of his husband’s hand.

                  “I did go to the police. I, I told them what happened. What he’d done. They asked how I knew him, and I told them. They said they needed to clarify some things.

                  “They asked me if I knew him. I told them that I did. They asked me if we had dated, I told them yes we had. They asked me if I was gay, and I said yes I was. They asked me if I had…If he had made me…if, you know, my body reacted the way a body reacts to sex and I had to say that yes it had. And then they asked me why I had wasted so much of their time. I said, but I’m bleeding. They said that they didn’t presume to know how my kind did it, and to please go home because they had work to do.”

                  Hannah looked at her stepfather and didn’t know what she saw. He had his same arms and legs and freckles and his hair was the right color red and the right kind of curly but he was filled with somebody she had never met, not her odd, pompous, beloved stepfather but a person who could no longer meet her eyes, sat beside another person who looked like her father and who clutched a pale familiar hand like a porcelain lifeline.

                  “After I went to the police, I wished I hadn’t. So that’s why I understand why some people don’t. But I wish they would. I know he hurt other people after me, he must have. And I feel guilty. Guilty that I couldn’t stop it.”

                  Martin swallowed and looked back up at Hannah. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did this.”

                  “It’s…it’s fine. It’s…” her voice was hoarse, for once she could not find words. “I asked.”

                  He nodded. “I think I’m going to lie down a while.” He stood up and stumbled like his legs had been surprised by the gesture. Hannah’s father rose in a smooth motion and he took Martin’s arm in an oddly genteel manner, like a gent in the thirties escorting his lover down the street. Douglas looked at Martin like he was the only thing in the word, and Hannah did not feel jealous.

                  Douglas remembered he had a daughter, not that he had been anything but hyperaware of her presence this entire time, though he hadn’t shown it. “I’ll be right back, darling.” She nodded and looked down at the table, her head reeling.

                  Instead of thinking, she listened to her fathers’ footfalls as the crossed the house, counting them without counting them. Suddenly, they stopped, and she heard their voices. They were muffled, but she could still make out the words.

                  “Martin?”

                  “I broke a cup.”

                  “It’s just a cup.”

                  “Do you still love me?

                  “Because of the cup?”

                  “Because I was broken before you got me.”

                  Hannah smoothed her hands against the clear glass of the kitchen table.  She breathed in counts of four.

                  “Broken? I wouldn’t go so for as broken. Worn out in parts, perhaps. But I was worn out in parts when you got me. Do you still love me?

                  “Of course.”

                  “Do you understand?”

                  “I do.”

                  The footsteps started up again. The two men who were her fathers continued their long trek across her house. 


End file.
